Unless
by Ihsan997
Summary: On the clearest night, at that remote lakeside clearing, they found him. Radiating no corruption or imbalance, he kept a vigil of his own, waiting but not knowing why. They spare his life, wondering if there may be hope after all. Set roughly three thousand years before the current WoW timeline.
1. Night Visitor

**A/N: hello readers! Consider this story a sneak peek for my upcoming stories about the women of Serenity, a Kaldorei grove of only twenty five people who upheld their duties during the Long Vigil. I felt the inspiration to write this story yesterday while looking for my phone charger. I hope it gets you thinking and entertains via the lives of beings who (formerly) lived forever and had no concept of time.**

 **For those wondering, Isurith is Cecilia. This story takes place a few thousand years before the first Warcraft game; the exact number of years doesn't matter, as immortal beings of pattern and habit probably don't notice many differences between one day and another. All of these characters appear in future stories in some shape or form. I don't own Warcraft, night elves or Kyra. Enjoy!**

Onward across the grassy plains, the five riders pushed, breaking out of the edge of the forest and speeding forward. At such speed, their elven armor blessed by the moon itself clinked and created noise that echoed across the flat grassland leading toward the lake. The ground was uneven, and their sleek nightsabres grunted as they bounded over the raised stones and patches of dirt underfoot. Starlight shone on the plain, though given the bright power shining from their eyes, it wouldn't be necessary; in the dead of night, all five of them could see just fine.

Loosely tied ponytails flapped in the wind, moving to the rhythm of the party of five's push. Although time was of no issue to beings as ancient as they, there was a sense of urgency as they raced toward the isolated lake in a clearing at least a mile wide. Different colors waved around, one of the few markings of individuality aside from their varying heights and the tattoos on their faces; actual features were relatively even, and to the colorblind, differentiating them might have been difficult.

Not that there were any such people around. Long ago, the world had been ripped asunder and blast to pieces; virtually all the peoples of the world had died, leaving a minority entrusted with the sacred duty of eternal life and servitude to nature. And while not the most ancient among the five, the leader was the most wise, knowing exactly when to slow her sabre, when to raise her first, when to pull to a stop and when to scout for signs of intruders. She'd gone through the motions enough times; conscious thought was no longer necessary.

"Hold!" Unelia called to the others as the skidded to a stop on a straightaway facing toward the shore.

Her four companions, all larger and more heavily armored, formed a perfect diamond around her as they stopped in tandem. A light wind rustled in the far off trees, but there was otherwise not a sound to be heard. Undisturbed grass marked their path all the way to the shimmering lake, punctuated only by an earthen outcropping forming an awning that faced away from them. Without being told, the four larger warriors of the night readied their glaives.

Deep indigo hair marked both Unelia and the huntress next to her; much, much taller but bearing almost the exact same features, her younger but larger sister was nearly a carbon copy despite being several centuries younger. Ancient regardless, Isurith leaned over ever so slightly to indicate she wished to speak, all movements subtle.

"I sense no imbalance," Isurith whispered in a clear, unblemished voice.

The shorter sister continued to stare at the back of the awning as if she could look right through it. The others held firm, waiting for the leader of their reconnaissance unit to give an order. All five of them were on rotation far from their ancestral groves; four of them from a tiny village near the very frontier of their people's land, and another borrowed from one of the many villages lining the slopes of Mount Hyjal. They were all far from their home territory and scouting an area considered remote even by the nearby huntress lodge they had been assigned to for that current century.

Wary of her women's differing temperaments, Unelia leaned back to her sister. "You and Madrieda around both sides. There is no imbalance in nature here, but...something is not usual. Show restraint."

Wordlessly, Isurith and Madrieda set their sabres into a slow creep, prowling around the sides of the earthen awning and shadowmelding to better blend in to their surroundings - a gift to their people from the Goddess herself. The two remaining back with Unelia hung close at her sides lest there be some sort of trickery involved. Kyra, the Hyjal native, had fought alongside the four compatriots during the Satyr War but her prowess was not fully known to them, and Unelia saw fit to keep her back in the event of an intrusion. Gwynneth, on the other hand, was well known to the other members of the grove; merely four millennia old, she had transferred in from Hyjal to live permanently at the grove and was a steadfast sentinel. She also bore that phenomenon long forgotten to their people called emotion, and held a rage unbecoming of a stoic Kaldorei warrior. In a case requiring restraint, it was better to hold her back on her leash.

Isurith and Madrieda both expended a few minutes creeping up silently, none of them having any sense of time; only work and sleep in an endless cycle. Patient and ready, Unelia watched as the two huntresses paused by the sides and froze, poised to strike and unwavering. Sensing that something was indeed awry, Unelia shadowmelded and crept forward as well. The slightest of hand movements instructed Kyra to assume a position atop the awning in the event that her sabre as well as she herself needed to pounce. Gwynneth hung behind Unelia, obedient though likely resentful, as the leader arced in a long, slow half circle around the awning.

Even for a ten thousand year old warrior of the night, Unelia was considered especially cold and stalwart. She'd known a time before arcane magic had even been discovered, and had seen their people grow from primitive tribes in the shores of the Well of Eternity into a once advanced civilization. Very little ever surprised her, and nothing gave her pause.

But when she saw the makeshift camp of a satyr, almost entirely in tune with the balance and totally absent of fel corruption, she could not but stop and stare in confusion.

The cursed blasphemer sat on a rock, picking the stems and leaves off of a bunch of berries he had ostensibly foraged for, unassuming as if her weren't the foul beast he looked like. His horns pointed up toward the sky in the most offensive of ways, complementing the vile hooves that had replaced his feet. Unlike the rest of his kind, he was clothed - partially, at least. A makeshift tunic had been woven from beaver fur, and it was obvious that the man had been living there for quite some time given the beaten nature of the dirt near his rock and the crude but weathered shelter he'd built from tree branches against the dirt outcropping. Even his movements were even and without the manic jerking typical of his insane ilk; during the daylight when they couldn't see as well, they almost could have mistaken him for a proper night elf male.

All eyes were on Unelia in confusion, confounded as to what they should do, save Gwynneth who nearly started fidgeting in desire for a fight. After a long period of silent observation as the satyr ate his berries, Unelia found no further explanation for the lack of demonic energy and disruption in the balance and had no recourse but to engage the target. Giving the signal well in advance and directing Gwynneth to wait behind her, Unelia broke her shadowmeld and confronted the satyr.

When the man continued eating his berries and showed no fear, another round of shock overtook them all. He was either very stupid, or had a death wish.

Leaving her bow in its sheath but giving him a hard stare, she attempted to understand why he was behaving so calmly. "What is your business here, satyr?" Unelia asked coldly, expecting stuttering and lies.

The horned man stopped eating for a moment and swallowed his food before answering, and didn't even bother to check how many of the Sentinels had surrounded him. "To live," was his only response before he returned to his meal.

Gwynneth growled lightly in the bottom of her throat but didn't behave rashly, and even Isurith twitched as if she were ready to cut the man down at a moment's notice. Her curiosity piqued if at least to ensure they understood any potential threat to the closest villages, Unelia studied the man a little further but gave no execution order as of yet.

"Your kind lives to sow the seeds of corruption in our holy land," she stated as if reading off a death sentence. "What illusions have you cast to remove your fel aura, satyr?"

Unafraid but respectful, the horned man finally looked up as if he were staring his end in the eye and felt ready. He radiated no sense of panic or urgency, but no scorn either. "I have no illusions to cast, archer. As I have turned my back on Elune, so have I turned my back on Archimonde," he explained, garnering hisses from some of the women at the mention of the Dark Titan's name. "My folly has left me alone in this world, not even with a source to blame but myself. I no longer possess the ability to even corrupt the berry bush from which I picked these."

Unelia shot Madrieda a look they often used when questioning one another. Born from the same generation, they often trusted each other's judgment when away from the priestess or commanding watcher of their grove, and that judgment hadn't steered either of them wrong so far. For her part, the dark green haired huntress held her glaive arm loose and her shield arm low, an indication that she felt no threat from the man.

Choosing caution over expediency, Unelia nodded for the others to stand at ease, much to the chagrin of Gwynneth and even Isurith to an extent. Kyra remained perched above, relaxed but ready for the killing blow should it be needed.

Unelia remained atop her nightsabre but released some of the iron in her words, letting a more formal if not quite relaxed tone of voice take over. "Demons do not possess free will; it could not be possible for you to forsake the Dark Titan," she asserted, hoping to push him into explaining himself.

Finished from his meal and straightened up on his rock, the satyr looked nonchalant but alert as he looked at Unelia the way the hunted game looked upon the archer after accepting that her arrow had hit its mark. "If you intend to carry out the High Priestess' orders, I will not flee. I know what I am, and regardless of what you may think, I am capable of choice-"

"Watch your tongue in front of the commander!" Isurith shouted from her position to the left, obviously incensed at her sister being openly contradicted.

A mere shift in Unelia's shoulders was enough to tell Isurith to quiet down; the party's leader could bear the slight if it meant discovering why exactly a satyr gave off no fel aura. "Your sentence has been stayed for now. You have much to answer for regarding your...lack of aura," she remarked in an almost humorous sense of disbelief. "And if you refuse to explain how you've done it, your end will be much more painful."

Unperturbed, the satyr remained silent for a moment before continuing. "I have no objection to telling you whatever you ask. Perhaps there will be some benefit from it to the Children of the Stars." His comment was made without jest, merely confounding the entire group even more.

Seated on a rock and facing his end, the satyr calmly began to recount his tale, almost as if he'd wished to tell it at least once before dying.


	2. Why

I stood at the edge of the barrow den, watching the wisps dance around the ancient purplewoods. I had spent a long time waiting, for our Shan'do was never without a task or some sort of responsibility. One of his calabre never had a free moment. I waited patiently, for all we had to do was wait. Footsteps echoed on the wooden ramp leading out of the den and into the grassy clearing used as a patio as one of our colleagues joined me.

Pontus sat down nearby, his long, proud antlers the envy of the rest of us. So few had been blessed by nature in such a way. Our colleague Sodor had begun to sprout his own despite his lack of focus, making the failure of myself and a handful of others to achieve even more apparent.

At least we were still Druids. Our eyes had turned from the silver all the children of the stars were born with to the amber color of tree sap long ago, signaling that we passed our trials and had been initiated on the path. Those who hadn't even passed the trials became the guards, warriors with no connection to nature but who performed the thankless task of guarding us while we slept. But every time Pontus walked by, the antlers growing from the top of his head almost as developed as those of our teacher, Geldor, many of us in the lower ranks could not prevent the jealousy that had entered our hearts. That Pontus was so congenial and humble only made it worse.

He sat on the short toadstool opposite mine and looked down at the valley inside the clearing before us. He was our shining star yet our greatest envy. An object of pride for our den and brotherly love among all of Geldor's students, yet a constant source of pain and disappointment for those of us still trying to learn how to invoke simple growth spells on young saplings and forest vegetation.

He looked at me with eyes bearing nothing but respect regardless of my rank, and I detested it. Undeserving and uncomfortable, I tried to ignore my den brother but to no avail. "Do you suppose the winters will continue to grow colder as they have the past few decades?" he asked, attempting to flatter me in my efforts to become a true Druid of the Talon like master Geldor.

But I could not accept that which I had not earned. "The asker knows no less than the one asked." I tried to brush off the line of questioning, only giving away my sense of frustration.

"May Elune increase us all in knowledge and skill, my dear friend."

Fighting off the instinct to shut my eyes and growl, I waited for him to grow idle from my lack of response. Eventually Pontus took the hint and stood to leave, patting me on my shoulder as if he'd somehow consoled me for my lack of success or inspired me by his empty words. He wandered off to Goddess knows where, possibly responding to one of several calls of nature a Druid might receive, both personal and general. Alone again, I stared up at what little of the White Lady I could spy through the high purple and green canopy. The clearing created just enough gaps between the leaves for me to see.

Why? Why did the winds fail to respond to my call? Why could my forearms sprout no more than a handful of feathers before my shapeshift fizzled out? Why could my healing spells do no more than to cause a moderately soothing cold sensation in an open cut without sealing anything?

And yet I received no answer. There were no epiphanies or great sources of inspiration; just the glowing mockery of a crater-covered rock floating in the Twisting Nether, unable to affect anything in the mortal realm or even if it eclipsed the sun or not. The empty void of reality rang in my ears until I shut my eyes tight, biting blood from my tongue.

A flower wilted and died when I tried to invoke a spell to make it grow. What was I doing wrong? Why was I being punished by a Goddess I was beginning to suspect didn't even exist?

A second set of footsteps, much lighter and almost soaring across the wooden surface of the ramp, approached. So rare were individual visits from the resident teacher for our small barrow den that all rose to meet him. Yet on that night, as I felt my faith wane in such instability, I found myself remaining seated. Were Pontus or Sodor or any of the others to see, surely I would have been advised publicly and chastised privately. But so humble was Geldor that he took no offense, and only stood next to me as he tried to find what I was looking at.

For the longest time he said nothing, standing on two strong, unhindered legs as he seemed content merely to spend time next to me. To bask in his presence felt undeserved, for so many of my colleagues vied for one on one training sessions with Geldor. Unable to steal time I desired so much yet had not proven worthy of, I forsoke propriety and spoke to a superior in direct terms.

"It called to me again this last time. The voice. I see the thorns everywhere, and yet I do not feel any imbalance."

Neither smiling nor frowning, Geldor pursed his lips as if he were considering my words carefully. I'd confessed my sinful thoughts to him previously, and he'd taken note of my development over the past decade. Such a period of time was a blink of an eye for the children of the stars, for we are a people that do not die, unlike our ancestors. So when the comfortable dreams that should have been nightmares increased in frequency so rapidly, our teacher began to take an active interest.

"And does it only call for you to come to it?" Geldor asked, a legitimate curiosity void of judgment in his tone of voice.

Unable to lie to him of all people, I shook my head and let it hang low. "It has delivered promises now. Promises of great things. It's inside my mind; it knows what I desire." Confession to our teacher had always been so easy, but this time I truly felt shame for what I was dreaming.

Patient as always, he considered what I said for a long time. "The Goddess tests those she loves," he started, speaking in a cautious tone he never used with me before. My shame increased as I realized why. "Your test, I believe, is hope and despair. Elune teaches all educated Kaldorei the right path; but it is up to us to make the right choices. Such is the divine plan beyond our understanding." Once again pulled away by his duties, he left long after most of his individual sessions ended but far sooner that I felt I needed. "We are all responsible for our choices. True faith is not always in achievement; to persevere in the face of hardship is far more worthy of respect." His footsteps as he went back down into the barrow den gradually disappeared, leaving me alone in my acrimony again.

I looked up at the large floating chunk of rock in the sky again, wondering if there truly was something out there that could hear me.

"I've done all I can; and yet I see no results. Am I to be a fool forever, turning down promises of reward for my efforts in order to continue being nothing?"

No response. The echoes of my voice didn't even carry beyond the patio area. The entirety of nature and all the universe continued on without me, leaving one purple spec to seethe as precious time was whittled away in a life that couldn't amount to any more than an elaborate cosmic joke.


	3. Thorns

Life at a barrow den was largely uneventful; we men were mostly spared from the harsh lives with which our women were tasked. Those who failed to succeed in their trials one too many times were relegated to the rank of den guards, silver eyed warriors bearing weapons and armor - like our women, but lacking their prestige. A fate I feared I was destined for. At that time, I believe I had a choice: to accept that slow fate, waiting for it like a fool; or to be the change that I desired to see.

In the early days, when Shan'do Stormrage first warned our people that the time for our hibernation was drawing near, life was a bit busier. It was he who first established a foothold in the plane of existence known to us as the Emerald Dream, but at that time we were only phasing in and out for decades at a time, some of us only years. Our intention was both to acclimate to long periods of sleep and to enhance our bonds with nature; attrition from the ranks of the hopeful was high as those with no Druidic potential were weeded out. A few of us crawled toward that which we desired, unsure of our own success or failure.

At any given time, more than half of the Druids were already sleeping; none had ventured into that plane of existence permanently, or if they had, those were dens many months of travel from ours. Master Geldor remained awake to train and to lead, bearing a heavy burden as he nurtured our abilities. The den guards were ever vigilant, though not to the level of our women, the sentinels. Were one to emerge during the daylight hours, slipping past their watchful eyes was possible. And in my attempt to be the change, I accomplished just that.

Most potential threats lurked at night, as we did; there was no shortage of den guards to intercept stray predators or other beasts that might have approached. That's assuming, of course, that the forest itself didn't prevent the approach of such hostiles first. During the day, however, there were few that would attempt the folly of approaching our settlements uninvited; only one or two guards were on duty, prepared to alert the others. Sneaking past them was easy, and as a child of the stars, the forest did not prevent my movement.

The voice had tempted me for years, but eventually the night visitations became annual, then monthly, then weekly. When it spoke to me thrice in one week, I could no longer resist the temptation. I would like to claim that my intention was to slay whatever source of corruption caused the voice, but I have told far too many lies already. The truth is that I had already determined to accept any offers granted to me, so as to avoid my own slow relegation to that of a nearly invisible watchman, pacing the same path back and forth around the barrow den for a literal eternity.

It was only a matter of days before the voice began guiding me again, and for beings so ancient as we, such an amount of time felt like the blink of an eye. Down through woodlands and valleys I did not know, off beaten paths where no sentinels patrolled and where the canopy obscured the constellations, far beyond where any living animals dared to treat, I walked. Slowly, gradually, the disembodied voice moved from inside the confines of my mind to somewhere external, yet without physical presence in the forest. It was a voice beyond space and time, ignoring promises and giving only directions as to where I was to step, where I was to look, and even when I was to pause.

Purple and green changed to dark red and then brown. As gradual is the transition was, I still took notice; such changes were obviously symptomatic of the source of the voice. Its enunciation became clearer, its sentences more complex, its tone more alive. Yet it was nowhere to be seen, not by the naked eye. Brown darkened into black, and the branches became more jagged as the trees even became smaller and smaller. The upward arc eventually became more twisted and asymmetrical, yet I did not feel afraid. In a way, I almost felt as if those branches would provide cover for me were the necessity to arise.

Finally, when I was so far in to that place that I was completely lost, most assuredly unable to return to the den, the voice took form.

"Come forward."

This time, it echoed, and my sensitive ears were able to locate its true position. The number of leaves on each tree became less and less as I approached, and the wind stopped blowing. There were no insects, no leaves crumbling aside from those upon which I stepped; no sounds aside from my own breathing. The air itself stood still.

It was there that I saw him. The clearing was small, too small to be detected from afar. Right in the center of the clearing he was rooted, though I did not think he actually grew; he looked trapped. His roots obviously ran deep, but his bark was dark, brittle and cracked. In between the cracks, I could see the fel infection and its green glow, and the few leaves that remained on his thorny branches were so brittle that they were almost petrified. His trunk moved up and down as he breathed, and while the vague outline of his facial features remained, his eyes had long ago crusted over; there was another sense of sight with which he viewed me.

I didn't know what to do seeing as how I had finally arrived. "Can you hear me?" I asked, unsure of whether or not the communication was one way or not.

After the longest time, I could hear the voice again. It did not emit from him directly, but it was much clearer as I stood before him. "I hear; I see. And more." I didn't understand what he meant, nor was I in the mood for games. My mere presence there had already ensured that there was no turning back. As if sensing my impatience, he took no issue as he made haste. "Do you wish to achieve?" he asked me, his vagueness lost on my greedy soul.

"I do!"

The trunk continued to breathe, and although the crusted, gnarled face couldn't move, I knew he was smiling. "Do you wish to attain power?"

"I would not have come were the answer not affirmative."

As if feeding on my positive energy, the voice became stronger without causing me to become weaker. His roots, his trunk remained the same, but something intangible bloomed. "I can offer a way out of your current path...but you must make the choice," the voice told me cryptically, perhaps knowing I was already sold and didn't need to be convinced.

The brittle, stiff bark split open a little more in the middle, and the fel green sap oozed out. It trickled down until it pooled at a few of the roots, collecting in a mockingly small amount. Fearful that it may evaporate before I had my chance, I cupped my hand and scooped up as much as I could.

"You must be the change," it whispered, as if having read my thoughts. It became not weaker but further away, leaving me to my own devices. "Make your choice."

That I did. I drank the corrupt sap; all of it. I didn't even feel myself collapse. Before I had finished drinking, the world had already gone dark.


	4. Lost

Death. Death all around me. I saw it in the withered leaves. I saw it in the tested branches. I saw it in the scorched soil and burnt grass marking where the fel fire had spread. All because of me.

Miles and miles of the sacred forest had been leveled and burned. As far as the eyes could see, nature had been corrupted and the carcasses of a few stray demons still lied about. The balance had been offset, nature had been defiled and the Goddess had been betrayed.

All because of me.

One more time, I looked down at myself and almost retched. Walking on my new legs had become quite easy given all the time my body had had to adjust. I don't know how long I had lost my sentience for, but it had certainly been the entirety of the war. That I had somehow fought hard enough to regain it in time was likely the only reason I'd escaped the sentinels. The rest of the betrayers like me had largely been culled when the remnant forces of the now banished Legion made their last stand in the Satyr War. I stood in the middle of the singed clearing, a man alone.

No, not a man. A beast.

I didn't know if I still had toes or not; the hard chitin of my hooves didn't have nerve endings. Perhaps my elven toes were still enclosed inside, or perhaps they had mutated into whatever hooved animals possessed underneath. My transformation had taken place slowly, but during my period of madness; I remembered only that it had occurred and nothing more. The two horns on my head felt like antlers, at least; there was one consolation in that I could occasionally pretend and lie to myself, to make believe like a child that it was all a nightmare and that I was actually a successful slumbering Druid.

But that was not the case. Grunting by accident, I winced at the sound that escaped form my vocal cords. My voice was warped and demonic, and disgusting to my own vile, goat-like ears.

In retrospect, I was very foolish to have been standing out in the open like that. I was also very lucky that it was only Pontus who had been sent to confirm the sightings of me before bidding farewell.

His footsteps were always soft despite his large stature. I shut my eyes tight as I heard him approach, unable to face him after having seen what I'd become. For the longest time, he remained silent as if unable to believe it.

"What have you done?" was the only useless, rhetorical phrase he could utter.

But I could not meet his gaze. I felt like I was undeserving even of that. Gulping hard to listen to my own jaw shifting and blot out the awful sound, I answered him in that foul voice I'd been cursed with; even the blind could recognize my treason.

"That which you already know, most likely. There is nothing else to say."

I heard him shift, and although I couldn't see him, I assume that he was shaking his head. "Why...how? You were focusing so hard...why? Why you of all people?" His question was as irritating as it was foolish.

"The sacred hymns I sang did not pass behind my throat. I wandered in the dark, deaf, dumb and blind, and thought I'd found my way. Anything to avoid the crushing monotony of facing my own failure as a Druid every single day."

"No. You would not have failed. Master Geldor would not have allowed it," Pontus retorted, causing me to grit my teeth. "You had promise - he saw it in you."

"He can see whatever he wants; there is still a natural order to life. The cruelty of the world keeps and forsakes those who it wills." I hung my head even lower in shame, feeling angry at everything and nothing as I tried to move on to acceptance. "This was always my destiny; the world is bleak for the wicked like me."

As if sensing my stubbornness, Pontus quieted down and stepped away. "There is so much beauty in the world, if only you had allowed yourself to see it. The balance finds an appropriate place for us all, no matter what." When I refused to answer, he gave up; my grotesque appearance was likely enough to demonstrate to him that I was beyond saving.

And so I stood alone again, waiting for nothing as I found myself empty of all faith and inspiration. I had not been robbed of it, mind you. This, I found as the voice visited me for the last time.

The most twisted of saplings struggled to remain standing in the corrupt soil as fel fire burned it to dust. That fire shone in my eyes, hypnotizing me as one wretch taunted another.

"You made your choice," it whispered, fading into nothingness by the second. "First, you left the Kaldorei; then, you left the Legion. All that you see now is what your own hands have wrought."

Seething even hotter than the demonic flames, I cursed that twisted little tree. "You led me to this!" I hissed in futility. "You led me astray from the true path!"

Refusing to leave me to my infantile fantasies, the voice taunted me one last time before it disappeared.

"I did nothing; all of this was by your own actions." The tree burned even faster as it began to disintegrate, threatening me with true solitude. "I have neither the power to help nor to hurt; it is only the direction that I give. The choice is yours. The choice makes the difference."

And the voice was right. It was right, and I knew it. A betrayer of my people, an outcast even among demons, I began to walk without knowing my destination. Downcast and dejected, I came to know what true loss meant; as I roamed the corrupt landscape, only dust and soot were my companions.


	5. Until the Right Time

The sentinels all waited patiently even after the satyr had finished its bizarre story. The goat man remained calm throughout despite recounting its abridged tale of blasphemy, betrayal and misery. The look on his furry face was one of someone who had relived the sins of the past so many times that even the shame and pain had dissipated in time, leaving an empty husk with very little reason to even live.

Stoic aside from Gwynneth who jittered in desire for a summary execution, the night elves all looked to their leader for guidance. Unelia remained sitting stop her nightsabre even when the big cat had crouched, both of them ready should the need to strike arise.

But it would not arise. Of that, there was no doubt. The satyr looked up at the unit's commander, shame and dejection in his eyes.

"My story is the result of choice; nothing more. We make choices...and we live with them." Nonchalant and entirely unafraid even with the glaives and arrows aimed at him, the satyr wiped his hands on the grass near his perching spot to rid his fur of the berry juice. Isurith squeezed her glaive arm a bit tighter, totally untrusting of the cursed traitor. Undaunted, he spoke in even tones as if he cared not whether he lived or died. "It is my hope that my story will serve as a warning to others against the end result of such heresies and errors. I don't know if there is redemption for my kind...but I hope my fall can save others, if you pass on the knowledge of what happened."

Cold and objective, Unelia resheathed her bow and stood at ease despite the tension of her women. "We will; our report must be circulated among the local area commanders. The way in which one may become corrupt is relevant to our sacred duty of protection." Pausing as she examined him, her eyes bore the hardened, stalwart stare befitting a squad leader, but they were empty of any aggression. "Your story will be told," she reassured the fallen Druid.

Crestfallen eyes met hers again, unmindful that the life might very soon fade from them. "What is your choice of action in the field, commmander?" he asked without any apprehension but with a good measure of curiosity. "Death? Arrest?"

Gwynneth sneered in anticipation and even Kyra looked ready - though not eager - for an execution. Isurith held even more still than a sleeping ancient, but could cut the man down before the others had a chance were her sister to give the signal. Only Madrieda remained tempered, telling Unelia much more through her eyes than she could with words.

When Unelia looked back at the red, furry figure, she did not see a demon. She saw a broken, despondent man full of remorse and regret for his crimes. Unable to end him, she waved a signal for her women to back off.

"I sense no imbalance in nature here," she stated plainly but firmly. Her comment was directed more at her fellow sentinels than the satyr. "We found a lake and nothing more; there is no disturbance."

Once their assigned officer had spoken, even surly Isurith backed off, leaving only Gwynneth to let her jaw drop open. The nightsabres even appeared unaggressive, seeing a being but not a demon due to the lack of fel corruption in the air.

One last time, the satyr looked up and spoke in a defeated tone. "Warn the people. They are no longer my people, but they are upon the truth, and do not deserve to fall into such traps. If there's one act of atonement I may perform, it's passing on my story as a warning to others." Almost showing a hint of emotion for a split second, his voice took on a pleading tone as he addressed Unelia - not for his own life, but of those who might fall to the same temptations.

"It shall be so."

A single, solemn nod was his only response to Unelia's reassurance. Glowing silver eyes shifted around slowly, unused to such disengagement from a theoretical target after living as nature's eternal soldiers for so long.

For another long pause, the group fell silent as the satyr looked down and stopped moving. Though he didn't appear to have died, something most certainly changed in the atmosphere as the sabres pricked their ears up.

Druidic magic surged throughout the area, energizing the balance in a way that should be impossible in a district with no male Kaldorei inhabitants. Ever so slowly, green swirls twirled around the satyr, orbiting his deformed figure as he sat stop his rock and curled in on himself. The snapping of wood rang out as the surface of his skin was enveloped from within. Amber tree sap leaked out of his pores like sweat and hardened into petrified wood as his skin turned to bark. His shape shifting took almost a minute to complete, but it felt like much longer as the satyr held still and didn't move. Right there in front of all five sentinels, the satyr hardened until his hooves sprouted roots which took ahold in the ground, and his arms became melded to his sides as he hugged himself in a lonely attempt to comfort himself. Twisted branches complimented a sad, melancholy expression that vaguely resembled a face.

His transformation complete, the balance burned brighter than usual as the being disappeared, leaving only nature in its wake.

At first, nobody spoke; none of them quite knew what to make of it. It seemed like a trick, yet the children of the stars would have recognized it were that the case. Impetuous as always, Gwynneth raised her glaive.

"Commander, show me where to strike so I may rend asunder this abomination!"

"Stand down," Unelia ordered softly.

Frozen in place, the greenhaired sentinel appeared unable to move or think. Her eyes grew wide and she became visibly agitated despite controlling her tone. "Commander Swiftfoot, this thing is a demon! It corrupts nature!" Gwynneth sputtered, completely out of her element and confused as all hell.

"Do you sense any disruption of the balance here, Gwynn?"

Unable to answer, Gwynneth was stunned into silence. Even Isurith, Gwynneth's ardent supporter, heeded her sister's order instead. Kyra appeared confused, unsure of what had just happened.

"There is no demon here," Unelia asserted confidently while spurring her sabre to rise and lead the others away. "All I see is nature." Buckingher heels to order her sabre to rise, Unelia stalked away from the tree growing over a rock. "Sisters, assemble; we have a report to file."

Across the long, grassy fields, the five riders left, heading for the village where they'd been posted in order to report that no corruption had been found. Confused by the sight of an uncorrupted satyr, the five would remember the bizarre experience for centuries to come, never quite able to explain how the betrayer had been forgiven without even realizing it himself.

Near awake in a mile wide clearing, an earthen awning covered a sad, lonely tree. Twisted and contorted, its roots spread across a rock and sank into the soft soil, blending in with the scenery aside from the fact that there were no other trees around.

Thousands of years later, locals would say that on some nights, a faint amber glow could be seen from the two indentations on the twisted face that resembled eyes. Though twisted and disfigured, the face seemed a little less sad on those nights as it patiently waited for the right time to come, when it would finally be woken to prove it deserved a second chance. Because no matter what it had done, it still bore some measure of warmth in its heart; and the balance would not deny it a fair chance at the redemption it desired so much.

 **A/N: e-cookie for anyone who can guess the identity of the satyr.**


End file.
